


Skin Deep

by eclectickathy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Lucius, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Canon Compliant, Depression, Doodles, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, Drawing, F/F, Hogwarts Era, Hurt/Comfort, Leave Draco Alone, Luna and Pansy are my Ultimate Ship, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Resentment, Scars, Sectumsempra, Self Harm, Self-Harming Harry, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Suicidal Thoughts, Where is Ron?, Who's Ginny?, family ties
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-16 10:31:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8098738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eclectickathy/pseuds/eclectickathy
Summary: I’ll find you again, in another life, somewhere we can be whole.and until then, I will love you.When drawings and words start appearing on Draco's arms, he knows he has a soulmate- but that never meant much to Malfoys. But when self-inflicted wounds started transferring he finally feels the need to respond- but that doesn't mean he was prepared for who was on the other side. Told through vignettes following Harry and Draco, as well as Luna and Pansy through their days at Hogwarts and through their relationships. as close to canon as I can keep it.In progress! Thank you for all the kind comments!





	1. Pre-Hogwarts/Year One

**Author's Note:**

> In progress. Anyone who has read anything else by me knows I'm very slow, but I'll try my best. The more feedback I get, the faster I update! (I swear, I am always in need of people who actually like my work)  
> I own nothing, naturally. 
> 
> Please heed tags, I know Self Harm is a common trigger, and there's some talk concerning suicidal ideation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malfoys don't marry boys. 
> 
> And they certainly don't marry the Boy-Who-Lived. 
> 
> Harry's just glad he's not as alone as he was. 
> 
> Pansy hopes Luna will accept her as she is.

Draco was eight years old, sitting on the patio with his mother when the first of the drawings appeared. It was a warm day, and one of the house elves had brought them a pitcher of sweet tea, and with one hand on the cold glass he used the hand opposite to work up one of his sleeves, revealing little doodles on the inside of his forearm. His mother, busy with her spoon dipping into her sorbet, glanced up at the movement and dropped her spoon with a clatter. She sucked in a sharp breath.

  
"You shouldn't draw on yourself Draco, you have plenty of parchment for that," She offered a strained smile.

  
"I didn't draw on myself, mother."

  
"That's what I was afraid of," Narcissa replied, her delicate hand worrying the pearls at her neck. "Pull your sleeve down."

  
"But it's so hot!"

  
"I know darling, but you mustn't let your father see."

  
"But I didn't draw them—" Draco started, and his mother's hand touched his own.

  
"You're special, Draco, you've always been special. Just trust me for now, please?"

  
Draco frowned at his mother's stressed expression, and the smile that didn't reach her eyes. He rolled his sleeve back down.

———

When Draco was ten, his father began sculpting him into a 'proper Malfoy heir'. Afternoons that he used to spend wandering the sprawling grounds, or with his mother, he now spent in his father's study, or in the dungeons practicing the proper form for dueling. Just before his eleventh birthday, his father announced he would be taking Draco to another pureblood family's gala, where he would meet the girl he was promised to at birth.

  
His father bought him a new waistcoat for the event, gray with silver stitching, that matched perfectly with the silver vest he received for his last birthday. The day of the gala arrived, and after flooing to a large room Draco had never seen before, they were seated for dinner. Lucius craned his neck, watching for someone in the well-dressed crowd. Draco saw his father smile and greet a large man, followed by a medium-sized girl with jet black hair. She wore a short-sleeved green dress, and an alarming number of loud golden bracelets on her left wrist. She rubbed at them nervously, eyes cast downward.

  
"Come, meet your betrothed, Draco. This is Pansy Parkinson and her father." Draco bowed warily, exactly as his father had instructed him to. He took the girl's left hand and pressed his lips to the back of it. As she drew back, Draco swore he could see flowers etched under the gold.

  
"Pleased to meet you Miss Parkinson," Draco said, just as he had rehearsed. When he stood, Pansy glared at him, and his father looked proud.

  
"They look like a lovely couple," stated Mr. Parkinson, and Draco tried not to think about the contrast of his white-blond hair beside Pansy's black strands, or perhaps how her hand seemed larger than his own. He thought they'd make a hideous couple, but he was taught to keep his mouth shut, so he returned the smile of the brutish man beside his rather brutish daughter.

  
"Perhaps we can reconvene after dinner in order for Draco and Pansy to spend some additional time together?" Lucius offered.

  
Mr. Parkinson must have nodded, but Draco was too busy watching the girl rubbing at her wrist to see it.

  
Lucius led Draco back to their table, and he beckoned a house elf from the wall where they all stood. The elf poured their drinks as another placed their soup in front of each of them, careful not to shake the bowls. 

"Was Master Malfoy needing anything else?" asked the elf. 

"No," Lucius huffed, not bothering to meet the eyes of the servant. Draco lifted his spoon and began to eat before hearing his father clear his throat. "Your napkin, Draco." 

Draco flinched at his father's glare, hitting his wrist on the table in his rush to comply, spilling hot soup onto his sleeve. His _brand-new_ sleeve, the sleeve of the coat his father bought him to meet his _fiancé_. "My apologies," Draco said, standing. "I'll go clean up." 

Draco slipped into the men's room, taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves to work at the stain. His eyes caught on the small words and stars doodled on his arms, but he dragged them away, turning on the water. He couldn't believe what an utter _fool_ he was making of himself tonight. 

 _At this rate, father will never trust you with anything of any importance. Why would he? You can't handle a simple dinner._ Draco ground his teeth, and scrubbed more harshly at the material, the spot simply refusing to fade. 

"Draco," said a voice. The boy at the sink turned, finding his father standing in the doorway. He stalked toward him, grabbing his wrist. "I come to see what's keeping you, and I find all of this garbage on your arms!" He shouted. Lucius pushed the boy's arm under the water, scrubbing at the marks on his arms. 

"I didn't—" Draco mumbled. 

"What have you done, spelled this on? You've plenty of ink and paper, why engage in such a low class behavior?!" 

Draco flinched back, tears filling his eyes. _Mother warned you..._  

Footsteps came from the hall. "Mr. Malfoy? Is everything alright?" 

Lucius turned and found Mr. Parkinson standing where he had not long ago. "We're just finishing up here, I apologize for my sons behavior." Lucius let go of Draco's arm, now angry and red with black marks unfaded, resting his wet hands on the countertop. 

"Step aside." Parkinson demanded, eyes fixed on Draco  

"My son and I will be along in just a _minute_ —"

"Let me see the boy's arms," he said. Draco's eyes were wide in fear, his eyes fixed on the still-running faucet.  Lucius sighed and reached out to Mr. Parkinson. 

"Please, it's simply a small—" 

"This boy is _marked_!" He scoffed. "You tried to marry off your son when he's destined to be with someone other than my daughter?!"

Draco thought of the flowers. Pansy could have drawn them, he guessed. But then why hide them? 

Lucius was silent, and Parkinson shook his head. "I'm breaking the engagement off. My daughter deserves better than a marked man." 

———

Draco ignores the marks for as long as he can, but one night he wakes up with his arm stinging and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. He sees the red seeping through the light fabric of his nightshirt, pulls it up before it can get much worse. There, among the jotted notes, stars, and drawings is a straight red line, blood ebbing along the break. Draco slips out of bed and sits at his desk, taking out his older quill and writes neatly, _stop._

He held his breath. He wasn't sure he'd get an answer. 

 **I don't want to.** Messy print, but an answer all the same. 

 _Why would you hurt yourself?_ It's penned carefully as if Draco were writing a formal correspondence, though the ink seeps into the pores of his skin  

**It hurts more if I don't.**

And that's the end of it. 

Draco leans over his washbasin, scrubbing what he can of the ink from his skin. He dabs around the wound and tries to heal it, to no avail. He guesses it can only be healed from his soulmate's side. He wraps it in a clean cloth and hopes it'll stop throbbing by morning.

———

Harry thinks he may be going crazy. He dreams of dark, skeletal horses, and a boy with fair hair that never faces him. The dreams, however, are the least of it. Weird things have started following him around, and now words were appearing on his arms. Harry wanted to believe someone was speaking to him, _caring_ about what he did to himself, but Harry was also a rational person. No one was coming to save him, the people in his life had made that abundantly clear. But with each night, the dreams of the boy grew more vivid, though no more words appeared. 

Something was coming. Harry could feel it.

———

_Year One_

_———_

When Draco first sees Harry, the sight sends something between an electric pulse and a tremor of fear through his body. A few days later he feels it. A light pressure on his arm that he knows is from the scratch of a pen. 

**Are you here**

_what_

**Where are you**

_why_

**I think** Harry wrote,  **I feel you near me**  

Draco shivered, put his quill down.   

 

He tries to tell himself that his soulmate couldn't be another boy, couldn't be Harry bloody Potter. 

Tries to tell himself he doesn't want him to be.

———

Four days after Harry Potter stops the Dark Lord from returning, Draco feels the pain again. Sharp, stinging, just above the place it hurt before. He slips out of bed and into the Slytherin common room, careful to not wake his roommates. He pulls up his sleeve, casts a lumos, feels something like hope in his chest because why would _Potter_ be doing this just after he fought the Dark Lord? Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't destined to be with the Boy who Lived to make his life miserable.

Draco picks up a self-inking quill from the desk beside the emerald couch, pushing back his sleeve just a little farther. He writes, _why?_

 **it was too much**

Draco stared at the messy lettering. What was he supposed to say to that? 

**Who are you? I read the marked are always a witch or wizard.**

_Yes, I'm a wizard._

Draco watched as an invisible quill circled "who are you". Draco took a long breath. 

 _Harry Potter._ He lied.

**you're not**

He could hardly breathe. 

_How do you know that?_

**Because I am.**

He shuffled to the bathroom, wrapped a bandage from the cabinet around his arm. Looked in the mirror and pushed his white blond hair out of his eyes. He squeezed the edge of the sink, his knuckles white with the force of it. 

This couldn't be happening. 

——— 

Harry tries to contact him in the days to come, but Draco stays silent, though his fingers itch for his pen. His father would probably insist on killing Harry, or maybe just burning the top layer of Draco's skin off— whatever he would decide, it certainly wouldn't be that he get more involved with the boy. His first year at Hogwarts comes to an end, and the day after he returns on the train he wakes to a two inch long burn on his wrist and **sorry** scrawled just under it. 

Draco can't resist. 

_What happened?_

**burned myself cooking**

_Be careful._

**thought you'd tell the world about being my soulmate**

_No._ He writes, because he might as well not be. There was no they could be together, even if they wanted to be. Which of course, Draco _didn't_.

**how old are you**

_As old as you._

**are you at hogwarts?**

_Yes._

**are you going to tell me who you are**

_No._

**why not?**

Draco didn't want to answer. Why didn't he want Harry to know? Because he didn't want to see his disgusted face, didn't want to feel the hate surging in his chest and the sick sweet feeling that had begun to congeal around it.

_It's complicated._

Harry didn't answer. 

Draco thought that was fair. 

———

..............

Pansy was eleven when she told her mother that she her soulmate was another girl. Her mother stopped chopping the carrots, looked up at her and blinked twice. 

"I know," she said quietly, glancing at her nails.

" _How_?" Pansy had been so careful, wearing long-sleeved shirts, dressing immediately in the bathroom after a shower.

"I know you can't draw. You always had beautiful flowers on your arms."

Pansy was quiet, and her mother picked up her knife and began working again. 

"I don't want to marry a boy." _Sorry you're not getting the grandchild you want._ She thought.

"Lots of people don't marry their soulmates." 

"But I want to," Pansy mumbled. 

"Have you even met her?" her mother said, the corners of her mouth twisting into something like a smile. 

"Not yet." 

"Then how do you know?" she asked. She placed the knife beside the cutting board and wiped her hands on her apron. 

"I know her better than anyone. She's just— a part of me, you know?" 

Her mother shook her head. "I wasn't marked." 

"Dad wasn't either?" she asked. Her mother's eyes dropped. 

"You'll have to ask him, Pansy. It's not my story to tell." 

"Mom—" 

"Please, go get cleaned up. The guests will be here soon. We'll talk about it later." 

Pansy glanced at her mother one last time and walked up the stairs to her room. She slipped off her sweater and read the message that had appeared on her wrist since she had dressed hours ago.

_I'll see you on the other side of all of this, darling. xx. Luna_

Luna was a beautiful name. It reminded Pansy of the moon and stars and everything she missed when she lived in the city during most of the year. She touched the words to her chest, and turned to sigh at the teal dress hanging on the door of her closet. Pansy prayed that Luna would accept her for everything she was— and wasn't.

..............

———


	2. Year Two/Year Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> /I miss the days when I simply knew I loved her./
> 
>  
> 
> /I want to hate you,/ Draco thinks. /It's true. Am I somehow missing any semblance of self-preservation? He’s going to destroy me and I can’t stop it- I’m not sure I would./

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right, I'm back! Sorry it took so long to post the second chapter, but I'm glad I got back to this piece, there's so much I want to do with it! 
> 
> Thanks for your continued support.
> 
> Reminder that this story does contain self-harm and some suicidal thoughts. Please be wary! 
> 
> Next update should take much less time.

———  
_Year One_  
———  
**November 12  
I miss the days when I simply knew I loved her, because it seems like my arm is blank much too often, and when she writes, I don't. It's too much knowing she could be there for me, and I can't be there for her.**

She keeps a journal now— instead of writing it on her arm.

Sure, she knows what happened to make her this way, but it doesn't make it better. She met the Dark Lord. Pansy would never put Luna in that kind of danger, no matter how much she cared for her; so she stops. Luna still writes— about the creatures she loves so dearly, the weather, anything at all to keep in contact.

_Did you know the graphorn has two golden horns? They're said to be one of the most beautiful sights on earth, but they're often killed for them._

_Is it snowing where you are too? I love the snow._

_I had an article published in my father's newspaper this week!_

And then one day, a message comes— a real one, like the ones she used to get when Luna still drew her pansies in the morning and talked about when they would finally meet.

_I know you're okay. I know you're out there. I can see you in the flowers, feel you in the air. I'm here when you want me. xx. Luna_

———  
_Year Two_  
———

So, he talks to snakes.

Draco's not completely adverse to the creatures— the small ones at least. Growing up hearing stories of Nagini swallowing wizards whole certainly hadn't helped him. When Snape called Draco up to duel Harry, he felt a strange sense of uneasiness in his chest. Part of him longed to take the other boy down a peg, but at the same time it felt overwhelmingly wrong to fight someone he simply wanted to protect.

( _Protect, touch, hold close_ , he thought, before pushing it away.)

Biology. That's all that was between Harry and himself.

Biology, and now a freakishly large snake.

—-——

It was becoming less of a dream and more of nightmare.

The pale-skinned boy was gaunt, his skin stretched over his bones as if they could break through his paleness. His shoulders hung crooked, his arms wrapped around his ribcage, fingers digging into each divot. If Harry looked closely, he could see curling black lines across his skin, like handwriting, but unlike nothing he could call manmade. Harry couldn't put his finger on why he felt like something was wrong, but he felt it with every gasp that followed his waking, the burn of his eyes, and the unbidden anxiety that settled into his bones.

Sometimes when he woke, there were new words on his arm, but even when there weren't Harry would write to the boy on the other side of his skin. It was a small comfort, but sometimes it seemed as if he was the only person that felt solid in those moments— the only person Harry could reach out to, even with Ron just feet away. His fingers often itched for a blade the closer the boy got, the aura darkness that surrounded him slowly overcoming him, even within the confines of Harry's mind. Somehow he felt the boy's destruction, he saw his depression, but just couldn't seem to explain it.

The dreams might not be real, but the fear it inspired certainly was.

———

The day Pansy arrived to Hogwarts her legs collapsed on the walk to the carriage station, and she heard a brief snicker of " _Walk much?_ " from Draco behind her. She would scowl and shoot back something scathing like she always did, but her knees were still weak and her breath still wouldn't come. Her fingers clutched at the neck of her robes, her eyes flitting from one group of students to the next. She could feel Luna. Feel the draw— so close. _Too close_. She stood. Took her luggage from where it fell. She would stay calm. She would make it to the dorms. She wouldn't _search for Luna because Merlin all she wanted to do was hold her close and tell her she was sorry_ — Pansy took a shuddering breath.

"Pansy?" asked Draco.

"I'm fine," She said, her voice still weak with what could only be explained as the complete absence of air.

"You're falling behind."

Pansy lifted her head and saw Crabbe and Goyle climbing into a carriage. Draco glanced at her, annoyed, then back at them. "Sorry, I'm coming," she said.

She walked up to the carriages, her head still reeling. Every part of her screamed to find Luna— even without a face to put to the name. Even with the danger. Even with the Dark Lord looming. _Which_ _is_ _extremely_ _selfish_ , she reminded herself, _Simply_ _ridiculous_ _considering_ _you_ _wish_ _she_ _was_ _safe_ _in_ _your_ _arms_. Pansy tried to focus on the conversation going on within the carriage, anything but the pull to Luna behind her, like the moon to the tide; but her mind was an endless refrain of _she's here, she's here, She's Here._

———  
  
Luna sees her as soon as she steps through the gate, and she cocks her head to one side as she watches Pansy slip to the ground before rising up to stare at a pale-skinned boy with a shock of white blond hair. She sees her eyes searching the groups of students— Searching for her friends? Could she be searching for Luna? She sees Pansy climb into the carriage, sees the thestrals drag it off. She feels like the sun. As soon as she reaches the great hall, she borrows a quill from a student sitting just a bit down the table. She rolls up her sleeve, ignoring the curious looks from her classmates.

 _Pansies bloom by the moon_ , she writes. _They don't close up._

Across the great hall, Pansy's hand curled into a fist as she felt the familiar tickle of writing on her arm. She fought against raising her sleeve to look at what Luna had said. She glances up, looks for Luna, though she doesn't even know her face. She doesn't see Luna's eyes on her, or how she bites her lip. She doesn't know the incandescence she sees surrounding Pansy, or how the air almost contorts around her.

Pansy just knows that she's scared.

Luna gets lost in the floating candles of the ceiling, the grand speeches of the headmaster, and the flood of students headed back to their respective houses, but by the time she reaches her dorm she feels Pansy writing back. She opens her trunk and takes out her mother's quilt, and her brand new self-inking quill. She spreads the quilt over the bed before sitting down and rolling up her sleeve apprehensively, quilt in hand.

**You're here, aren't you?**

_I saw you in the Great Hall,_ Luna writes _._

**How did you know who I was?**

_You're basically backlit in my mind_

**Didn't you want to meet?**

_I wanted to wait until you're ready._

**How do you know I'm not?**

_You haven't written in weeks._

**I still want to meet**

_I don't think you want to. Not yet. I'll still be with you this way till you are._

Pansy wrote nothing back. Luna thought perhaps she had been interrupted, or more likely, realized she wasn't as ready as she thought.

 _———_  
Year Three  
———

_Are you alright?_

**yes**

_Was that you?_

**yes**

_Why_?

**I was trying to find a way to hurt myself without hurting you**

Harry's hand shakes as he writes it, holding a mass of balled-up cloth to his thigh. He had hoped this way, he wouldn't hurt whoever was on the other end of this— as he feared he couldn't stop. At least physical pain stopped the mental, for a while— but these carvings of flesh somehow offered him control; even though his need to do it seemed a loss of it. How could he bleed the person he was destined for? Was that the reason he wouldn't tell Harry his name?

_You can't keep doing this._

**I'm sorry I didn't mean to hurt you**

_To YOURSELF._

It's underlined a few times and despite the pain of his leg, Harry smiles. The other writer had never been anything but proper with his language, and Harry's chest felt tight with the thought that he might care, _really_ _care_ , about him, and the feeling of hope blooming in his chest sickened him. That hope had no reason to be there— it was just another cruelty seemingly offered out of benevolence. He felt it in every part of him. He had no name, no face to put the words to. His _soulmate_ likely felt nothing toward him, even if that was something he couldn't accept. Harry took clean bandages, filched from the Hospital Wing, from the bottom of his trunk before he lifted his quill once more.

 **I'm** **sorry**. He wrote, and pulled down his sleeve.

He needed to wrap his wound, after all. 

———

It makes him a little bit angry, but infinitely more sad, and if Draco thinks about it for too long he can almost feel his mind twist in the wrong direction, the words of his father fighting the very nature of his biology. _Your_ _soul_ , something says, and he scowls. Draco stares into the bathroom mirror, foggy with the remnants of steam from the baths. He had washed the new wound well, cleaned it of blood and bandaged it tight under the towel around his waist. It didn't make him feel any better. 

"I hate you," Draco says, focused on the smug expression that was on Harry's face in Potions today. His stupid unkempt hair. The scar that lie under it. The scars on both of their arms. "I hate you," he says again. The green of his eyes. His ridiculously thick glasses. "I do." It's a lie, and he knows it will always likely be, no matter how many times he says it.

 _I want to hate you_ , Draco thinks. It's true. _Am I somehow missing any semblance of self-preservation? He's going to destroy me, and I can't even stop it— I'm not sure I want to_.

He does resent him, to an extent. He resents Harry's apparent _death wish_ , with his far too righteous heroics and his slaying of a _bloody basilisk_ , resents his protection of a hippogriff over him. (That was his fault, he knows, if Harry knew who he was, perhaps it would be different— maybe not.) But the room is cold on his heated skin, and what fills his mind is Harry's _warmth_. The smile Draco sees him flash his friends. The face he makes when focusing in class, soft and full of wonder. Draco just wants to protect it— that warmth was something he couldn't stand to see fade, even with his resentment. Harry protects the entire school, even Draco more than he protects himself, and it hurt Draco. Who was protecting _Harry_? Did the Gryffindors know about the scars on his arms and the wound on his leg? If they did, why weren't they stopping him? Could they?

Could Draco?

———

 **I'll be in the Charms classroom at 7 o'clock if you'll meet me**.

 _If you want me there, I will be_.

 **Please**.

Pansy doesn't know if she should sit or stand, and she ends up pacing, biting her lip. Just _praying_ Luna shows. She can't wait anymore. She just wants to hold her. The classroom is dark and calm, but there's a chill in the air that makes its way through her thin clothes and into her shoes. She casts a warming charm carefully, rocking back and forth on her heels as she feels it settle over her.

Luna arrives at precisely six minutes past seven, due to an unexpected collision with a Hufflepuff first-year carrying three dozen rolls of parchment, opens the heavy oak door and steps through it, feeling a surge of warmth through her as she sees Pansy waiting for her. The dark-haired girl hears it slam closed, turning to see Luna waiting on the other side of the classroom.

"Luna?" Pansy asks, and feels _instantly_ stupid because _of course_ she's Luna. Pansy feels like if she touched her she'd just be complete.

"Pansy," Luna says, and her face breaks into a grin. Pansy just sees a swish of white-blond hair before the other girl is in her arms.

It feels like coming home.

Her heart is beating much too quickly, and her eyes are tearing up ( _Which is ridiculous, because Pansy does not cry, especially in front of other people, she's a Slytherin for Merlin's sake_ ). Her breath shakes, because how can just touching a person make her feel this way— complete and calm? Luna draws back to look at her, and her eyes are a misty blue she's never seen, but she wants to know.

"I was afraid you'd never find me," Luna mumbles.

"Find you?"

"Well, more afraid you wouldn't _want_ to find me." Luna's fingers slip under the sleeve of her robe, cold on Pansy's charmed skin. Pansy lifts a shaking hand to brush back Luna's hair from her face where it had fallen.

"Is it okay?" Pansy asks, and she's not sure what she means. Luna nods, and Pansy's head falls to her shoulder, hesitantly. Luna smells like dried flowers and something sweet she can't quite place.

"Pansy?" Luna asks, (and Pansy immediately loves how her name rolls off her tongue) "I missed you."

She bites her lip, because of course Luna missed her, Pansy had been too quiet for _months_. "I missed you too," she chokes, and the first tear falls.

They don't stop.

———


	3. Year Four & Year Five Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pressure of being a Champion is getting to Harry.  
> Draco wants to help.  
> Pansy tries to distance herself from Luna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for being gone so long except college? But I am working on this piece, and have written up to where I've planned so far. I wanted to post this short update so you guys don't lose faith! Thank you so much for your comments, I would have never kept writing this without you. 
> 
> All my love.

———

_Year Four_

———

 

**I didn't put my name in.**

_I know you wouldn't do that._

Mostly. Draco doesn't _think_ he'd be that stupid, but he's heard the whispers. The Dark Lord wanted him in this tournament.

 

**I could die**

_But you won't._

He hopes.

 

**I wouldn't mind**

_Well I would._

**I'm glad I didn't meet you before the dive.**

_I thought you wanted to meet?_

**I just didn't want it to be you down there**

There's a twinge of something painful in his chest. For Harry to care that much about him made Draco remember just how painful it would be when he found out who he was.

_I'm not one for being saved._

**are you the one saving me then?**

_Why don't we both save ourselves?_

**Sometimes you need saving**

_Well I'll be around, regardless._

 

Draco watches him dive, and though the script on his arm may make him appear unafraid, his breath is shallow and his teeth have come down hard on his lower lip. He holds his breath, waiting for Harry to surface— _Merlin, what if that goddamn plant didn't work? What if he's drowning down there?_ He braces himself, waits for the snap he know is coming. He had read about it, the tug and then severing of a bond born from something between magic and fate.

 

Harry surfaces with a yell that does more to irritate him than it probably should, but the relief is overwhelming.

 

———

They stare at each other as the Triwizard champions enter the ballroom. Draco's hand is clutching her arm much too tightly, and Luna's eyes are fixed on hers. Her gaze isn't the accusation she was expecting, but there is a sense of longing there, unwavering as Pansy quickly looks away.

 

It wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be _proper._

 

Draco doesn’t want to dance, and she wonders why they came together at all. _Keeping up appearances,_ she reminds herself. Draco leans against the wall of the ballroom in his silver dress robes, his arms crossed across his chest.

 

This is exactly the kind of place she hates to be. The bright lights, the magic buzzing in the air, and drama in the bathrooms. The way they all dress up, pretending that pretty clothes could make them pretty people, the same shit over and over, the one thing she thought she could come to Hogwarts to escape.

 

She feels sick.

 

“I’m going to run to the bathroom,” she tells Draco. He nods at her, his eyes narrowing.

 

The music fades slightly as she walks from the hall and into the bathroom. Her fingers shake as she turns on the faucet and looks at herself in the mirror, face painted with the makeup that her mother had sent her with the dress. Her breath is short in her chest, and something hot races up her neck. She splashes water on her face, smudging black and blue down her cheeks as she rubs at her eyes.

 

“Pansy,” she hears.

 

Pansy flinches, her hand jumping for her wand in her pocket, but she sees Luna just inside the door.

 

“Oh Merlin,” Pansy mumbles, color rushing to her face. “I’m sorry.”

 

Luna smiles sweetly, like she always does, and walks to her slowly, raising a hand to brush back Pansy’s hair from her face. Pansy can smell the dried flowers woven into her hair.

 

“I’m a mess,” Pansy says, clutching at the hem of her dress.

 

Luna shakes her head, bringing her hand to cradle Pansy’s face. She leans her forehead against Pansy’s, reaching for the hand that lies wrinkling the material of her dress and placing it on her waist. After a moment, in the quiet drone of the music from the ballroom, Luna begins swaying them back and forward.

 

“I wish we would have come together,” Luna says softly.

 

“I know,” Pansy whispers, her voice laced with something like an apology.

 

Luna’s fingers card through her hair, coming to rest on her shoulder.

 

“I missed you,” she adds.

 

“I’m never far away,” Luna murmurs.

 

 _She makes me feel beautiful,_ Pansy thinks. _And no one has before._

———

 

It's different this time. There is no long slash, no scrawled "sorry" in Harry's messy hand, just short scratches, as if he had reached through a shattered window, and silence. Which is somehow worse. Because Draco had sat in the stands, saw Harry stumble and fall, hands grasping Cedric's body, heard him shout the words he knew would destroy him.

 

And with them, Harry was no longer the Boy Who Lived.

 

Now, Harry is the Boy Who Lied.

 

But Draco saw him, the haunted look in his eye, felt the overwhelming nausea when the true name of the Dark Lord echoed through the stands of spectators. He knew the truth, and he knew the overwhelming helplessness that came with the headlines of the "tragic accident" that had occurred during the Triwizard Tournament. He knew Harry was telling the truth, and there was no way Draco could tell him he believed him. Draco's hands are trembling by the time he lifts a pen back to his arm.

 

_Are you safe?_

He waits a moment, hoping Harry will respond. When he doesn't, Draco lifts his quill again.

 

_Please. I need to know._

**I'm alive**

Draco shudders, the feeling of panic not quite fading from his chest.

 

_Maybe that's enough, for now._

**It has to be.**

 

———

_Year Five_

———

 

If he could, Draco would give Harry everything— the moon, the stars, every constellation, including his own. If he could, he would give Harry everything he has and more, but he can't even give him his name, and that's what he tells himself as he sits with a self-inking quill clutched in his fist and his astrology book open beside him, etching each aspect of the planets onto his arm. He's careful to etch over the darkest purple marks and onto the smooth skin that remains.

 

There's Cygnus and Vespa in the crook of his arm, Orion near his wrist, and then in the center, small and just peeking out from behind Saturn, he draws Draco. It seems like a secret, but feels like a lie. He's hiding himself among extraordinary things, and he isn't one of them. He never has been.

 

He finishes the last stripe over the bottom of Jupiter, and writes next to Harry's newest scar:

 

_You wouldn't rip apart galaxies, would you?_

Draco feels Harry writing on his right arm, and he smiles when he rolls up his sleeve and finds Harry's chicken scratch there.

 

**thank you**

 

**but I cant write with my left hand**

_Luckily, I'm ambidextrous._ Draco smiles.

 

**hard to write but thanks**

 

_Did you know Cygnus is actually a Phoenix?_

**thought it was a swan**

_That's what the muggles say_

**doesn't look like either to me**

_I'll teach you everything I know about the stars if you want me to._

There's a chill in the room as he writes it, because no matter how much Draco wants to chart the stars and teach Harry their shapes, it's _impossible_.

 

**I would love that**

_And I,_ Draco thinks, _Could love you._

_If this was a different world, I would hold you close and you would never bleed from my hand or from yours. If this was a different world, you would know me, and I wouldn’t be afraid._

———

 

There are several reasons for his five-petal flowers, and Harry knows them all.

 

  1. His soulmate. His head is an unending hymn of Helovesme helovesmenot helovesme helovesmenot _helovesme_. Five petals, five refrains. (He's lying to himself, but he lets it be; what else can he do?)



 

  1. He can't draw. (His soulmate can, from what he can tell, another of his own inadequacies) But if he can give him this at least, something so he can look down and know that Harry is there, _maybe he’ll write his name._



 

  1. No suffering is beautiful, but _something_ should grow out of his pain, these scars they both bare. If his soulmate can give him the universe, at least Harry can give him a garden.



 

He wants to know. It’s eating him alive.

 

He can’t stay silent about the bruises on his arms, echoing his soulmate’s own. He knows those marks. He’s had them before, the dark impressions of fingertips, clutching both of their arms. He so desperately wants to know who hurt him, to protect him, and when he can’t do that, he wants to help him. _Listen_ to him. Harry wants to know him more than anything.

 

But for now, this is all he can offer.

 

Harry finds the script just below the flowers, about an hour later.

_Thank you._

**Do you want to talk about it?**

There’s a silence for a moment, before he feels writing again.

 

_I’m okay._

**would you tell me if you weren’t?**

 

_Maybe._

And then a moment later

 

_Yes._

There’s a sense of relief at the word.

 

Progress.

———


	4. Year Five Pt 2 & Year Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The blood tastes like rust, and he sees his father's arm rear back to strike him, hears the spraying water of the broken sink, and he is being eaten away— the rotting wood of the manor; the maggots on the bird— /if you take away all the things you've been told you are and there's nothing left, are you still living?/
> 
>  
> 
> Extra warning for this chapter because of extensive commentary on suicide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy cow guys. I have SO much planned for this fic it's insane! I finally figured out where I want to end it and let's just say I have my work cut out for me... And some of you may try to kill me.
> 
> This is a long one (and a heavy one!), especially for me, but I'm glad I finally got it done. 
> 
> Also, today's my birthday! If you'd like to wish me a happy birthday, please leave me a comment about the chapter. ;) 
> 
> All my love.  
> KS

———

_Year Five, Pt 2_

———

 

_Why isn't she afraid?_

_How can she be so fearless, when all I have is fear?_

Pansy can’t imagine what it feels like to rebel.

 

She imagines it tastes something like freedom, like autonomy, like everything she’s wanted for so many years, and right now it looks like Luna. Her wild white-blond hair and the flowers and ribbon she weaves into it. Her small, warm hands, and the way she smiles when Pansy meets her eyes.

_She has eyes that follow me across the sky. She makes me feel like myself, and I hardly know who that is._

Luna lives a life she can’t even imagine, filled with her light that wards of the darkness, color instead of gray, endlessly gentle and endlessly kind. Pansy can’t remember the last time she felt soft, like she could spare kindness for someone and not be punished for it. She has always felt this way, always the same, never changing, and Luna never seems to be the same. Always seeking, always who Pansy wishes she could be. She wishes she could join Dumbledore’s Army, be on her side and fight for her, if nothing else- but she doesn’t know how to change.

 

_Who would I be, if I knew the light? If I could stay kind, could I stay in her arms?_

_She is endlessly hopeful, and I wish I could be. She loves, and transforms, always fighting, but I fear the new moon._

 

———

 

He thought he would grow out of it somehow. As if the moment he was declared the Chosen One he would be cured, his head and the scars on his skin.

 

But of course, it didn’t go that way. How could it?

 

But now, body buzzing with adrenaline and with pain, Harry sits clutching his ankle, wondering when he had become so weak. His soulmate had been right, he wouldn’t carve through galaxies, but it couldn’t keep him from hurting them both, no matter how much he wished it could.

 

He wanted to be whole.

 

He was tired of being so overwhelmed, trapped in a path he didn’t choose and couldn’t abandon. He wanted to fight, but he didn’t want to be the reason for fighting. He didn’t want it to depend on him.

 

_When I finally face them, and he cuts me open, will it be my blood or yours? Will you be among the ranks, will you fight me with him? Will you be safe?_

He’s never felt closer to anyone than he does in these moments when he stills the blood as it seeps from his wound and feels the script on his arm. Kind words, never bitter, forgiveness never stated, as if it was already known. But he knows the truth.

 

_He will never be safe with me._

 

———

_( - Flashback - )_

 

His hand trembles as he clutches the wand, a silver wisp leaking from it weakly and bleeding into the air under his father’s watchful eye.

 

It fails, just as Draco knew it would. His eyes map the cracks in the cement of the floor as the light fades, each of them splintering like spider webs and he is entrapped- the hand on his wrist tightens and everything comes slowly, the blow, the wall, the floor. He knows better than to raise his eyes as pain blossoms across his cheek.

 

This is how you raise a child.

 

With bruises on his arms and scars on his back. Always broken, always bowed. His face to the ground, and hands

 

always

 

reaching

 

 

_You raise a child in fear._

———

 

She loves Dumbledore’s Army.

 

She loves learning every spell, feeling safe within the castle, she loves being able to protect herself, and her friends. She just wishes Pansy could feel the same. Luna watches her anxious glances, her shaky hands- Pansy lived in fear, and she didn’t know how to fix it. She didn’t know if she could.

 

Their last meeting was more somber than she would have thought, their hands clutching one another’s in the dark of the broom closet, rehearsing kind memories of when they were both in bloom. Draco had led them to serve the new headmaster, to seek out those who worked against her, and in the name of Albus. It was too dangerous for them to meet.

 

She misses her. Constantly. She wishes they were born on the same side. That she could see the light that Luna has always known.

 

_But she is flower if I am the moon; never to touch but hoping that each breath that shakes her petals blows her toward me. If I am the mountains, she is the fields— both of us staring at the other at the stream where we meet._

 

Luna feels it before she sees it.

 

Her light fading, the incandescence surrounding Pansy that Luna could always see. And she is cold. In the wake of it she shivers, but there’s nothing to be done.

 

She is wilting.

 

———

_Year Six_

———

 

It’s like an eclipse.

 

She’s fading, fading, and Luna can’t see her anymore. The light that follows her, the magic. Can’t help her. Can’t reach her. _She is poisoned, and you are not the cure. You can’t heal her of this._

 

Luna finds her on a Tuesday, and something is off. It feels final, and it shakes her to her core.

 

Her hands are soft on her face, and her lips are gentle and seeking, and Pansy trembles as she wraps her arms around her, warm and soft, and never close enough. She always feels safe with Luna, but all she feels now is anxiety. She clings to her and tangles her hand in her hair, quiet and desperate to hold on. Luna moves to look her in the eyes.

 

“I can’t do this,” she whispers, and her voice is soft and pleading. “I love you, but I can’t do this. Not now.” She strokes Pansy’s hair out of her face.

 

“I’ll still write to you.”

 

Pansy shakes her head and buries it in the crook of Luna’s neck. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “I’ll find you, after all of this.” _I’ll be better, for you. I’ll find you again, in another life, somewhere we can be whole._

 

Luna smiles sadly, her fingers playing with Pansy’s hair. “I hope you do.”

 

“I love you,” Pansy says. “Please remember that.”

 

“I will.”

 

They’re silent, for another moment, until Pansy lifts her head. She wishes this moment would last forever.

 

“I have something for you,” Luna says. She lifts her bag off the floor, bright with enchanted sunflowers in eternal bloom. She lifts a book from inside. “I think you’d make a wonderful writer.”

 

Pansy looks at her, curious, and Luna smiles at her. “You deserve to tell your story too.”

 

Luna stands and presses the journal into her hands, lingering for just a moment before bringing her lips to Pansy’s forehead.

 

“I won’t say goodbye,” Luna mumbles.

 

“Then I won’t either.”

 

She shifts away, her hand on the door. Pansy closes her eyes, and when she opens them, she’s gone.

 

———

 

The door opens. His wand is posed to stupefy the bird again, so he could release it in the courtyard. The door creaks open, thrumming with magic.

 

There's bile in his mouth.

 

The wings are twisted and snapped like branches, the beak open as if in a silent scream. The eyes are open, staring at him relentlessly, and a maggot crawls from underneath its wing. His stomach churns, and he wrenches to the side, emptying the contents of his stomach. His breath comes quick when he is finished, and he claws at his arms.

 

He’s supposed to kill the headmaster.

 

He’s supposed to kill a _human being_ \- a wizard so many people love, when he can’t even handle the death of a bird. If he does this, if he _murders_ Dumbledore, Harry would never forgive him. He might even kill him, if he has the chance.

 

His chest hurt.

 

He stands, and lifts his hand to brush his fingers against the bird. The feathers are wet with blood. Draco remembers the warmth of the small body in his hands as he placed it within the cabinet.

 

His fault.

 

He took a _life_ -

 

Just like the Dark Lord would take his.

 

How could he take life? How _would_ he?

 

Something curls dark in his chest, heavy and laced with anxiety.

 

 _Say it,_ something whispers. _He's taken your freedom, he's taken your love. Say his name. Curse it. You're a coward, but maybe you'll be less of one if you can say it for once._

"Voldemort," Draco whispers, and fear claws at his chest. He's waiting for the rush of wind that brings a Death Eater in its wake, the bright burning of the mark on his arm, but nothing comes.

 

He is alone- as flightless as the bird. Trapped in a closet that can only lead to death, and yet he cannot open it.

 

He hopes Harry gets to him first.

____________

 

His hand is sweaty around his quill, fingers tight as he lifts it, shaking, to his skin.

_I don't want to be alive._ No words could be truer, but nothing could make them feel less dangerous.

**don't say that**

_if you knew you wo_

 

Messy printing cut off his script.

**I'm with you**

_you couldn't feel farther away_

 

A few seconds passed.

**what's your name**

_I'll tell you when things are better_

**why not now?**

_I'm not who I want to be_

**are you safe?**

_probably not_

**please be careful**

_you too._

______

 

Pansy leans against the wall, watching Draco pull and prod at the collar of his robes.

She rolls her eyes, and glances at the clock on the wall, before looking back at Draco. “ _You_ look a mess.”

 

“Excuse you, I look amazing. It’s not my fault I didn’t have time for finishing touches.”

 

Pansy scoffs. “Does his highness consider buttoning straight a finishing touch? Because I don’t think Slughorn is going to appreciate us being late.” Draco shoots her a glare.

 

“It’s not as if we were technically _invited_ ,” He mumbles.

 

“We’re in his house, I think we’re entitled,” She smirks, watching Draco roll his eyes and smooth back his hair, still ignoring the buttons.

 

She huffs and stalks over to him, taking his hand. “Hold still, I’ll fix it.” Pansy unbuttons his left cuff, straightening the sleeve. Her fingers move quickly over the plush fabric, but not quick enough for her to miss the curling black lines underneath the cloth. She glances up at Draco, studying his face incredulously. “No fucking way.” She moves to pull up his sleeve, and Draco flinches back.

 

“What are you doing?” he demands.

 

“Why wouldn’t you tell me, you _ass_? I thought I was the only one in Slytherin!”

 

Fear burned bright in his chest, and instinctually he jerked his arm away, holding it to his breast. “I don’t know what you mean.”

 

“Show me your arm.”

 

Draco flinches back again and he pulls down his sleeve, taking a step back. “No.”

 

Pansy’s eyes widen. “Draco… Who is it?”

 

“I don’t want to talk about this.” His fingers clutch the edge of his jacket protectively, and Pansy bites her lip.

 

_You didn’t tell him, either._

Pansy takes a cautious step forward, and shrugs off her sweater to reveal the writing on her own arm, beautiful and curved, the color of the ink changing by letter or by word. Swirls and designs surround the words and flow down her arm. She’s quiet for a moment, and her heart twinges in her chest. “I… Mine is Luna.”

 

“Looney?”

 

Pansy winces at the nickname. Her fingers twitch and she tugs on her sweater again, eager to hide the messages that feel so much like a secret. A secret she wouldn’t have for much longer. She feels sick thinking about it. Being without her. _Breathe. This isn’t about you. Not now._

 

“I can’t have her,” she mumbles. “Obviously. But I love her. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

 

Draco clenches his teeth together. He can’t roll up his sleeve with all the scars, but he reaches down to button his sleeve and straighten his sleeve. “It’s a boy,” he whispers. “I can’t have him, either.”

 

“Do I know him?”

 

His chest burns, and he feels exposed. He looks at the floor and nods, just slightly.

 

“You can tell me, Draco. I’m not going to say anything.”

 

Tears prick at his eyes, and he feels overwhelmed. He wants to tell her, desperately. To have someone know, to understand. _It will make no difference. At least she can love her. I’m supposed to hate him._

 

“Draco?”

 

His hand shakes as he crosses his arm over his chest, clutching his shoulder. “It’s Potter.” His voice trembles.

 

“Fuck,” Pansy says. “ _Fuck_. Does he know?”

 

Draco shakes his head. “How could I tell him? He hates me. He always has.”

 

“Not Potter. Merlin, Draco, I mean the Dark Lord.”

 

His chest is tight. “No? Why…?”

 

“Haven’t you thought this through? If he finds out, if anyone in your _family_ does, they’ll use it against him. They’ll have to.”

 

“You can’t tell anyone,” he says, panicked. “You can’t. I love him Pansy, _please_.”

 

“I won’t. I wouldn’t do that to you.,” She walks toward him hesitantly, wrapping her arms around him awkwardly. “I’m so sorry.”

 

“Does Luna know?”

 

Pansy bit her lip. “We’ve met a few times- she knew before I did. I’m not the kind of person who can be with her. _We’re_ not the kind of people who can be with people like them.”

 

“It’s like a sick joke.”

 

“Maybe someday, after all of this…”

 

Draco shoots her a look. “We’ll all be alive to reason it all out?”

 

There’s pity in her eyes as she takes a step back. “The war won’t go on forever,” she mumbles.

 

“But what happens when someone wins?”

 

———

 

When it slips from his mouth it feels like the first time he spoke parseltongue, but the words are thick and syrupy like tar behind his teeth rather than the cool touch of snake skin, and his stomach suddenly feels like he's eaten something foul. " _Sectumsempra!"_

And he sees the blood.

 

Harry walks forward, wand drawn. He hears the sobbing, sees the boy's eyes close, his sleeves pulled up to reveal pale arms covered in stars and planets.

 

"No," Harry mumbles. " _No._ " He yanks up his own sleeve, three perfect plum scars surrounded by every aspect of the Milky Way he knows, and at the crook of his arm, flowers, crude and poorly drawn. Flowers for Harry's soulmate. " _I didn't know—_ "

 

Harry hears the splash of the water on the ground. Snape hovers over Draco, looks Harry straight in the eye, then down to his arm.

 

"Go," he commands.

 

He runs.

 

" _Vulnera Sanentur,"_ Snape hums.

 

"He wasn't supposed to know," Draco sobbed.

 

_I loved him._

 

" _Vulnera Sanentur."_

_And I struck him down._

_———_

 

He feels sick. _He feels sick_. _Hefeelssick_.

 

Every time he faces him, sees the hatred in the eyes that follow him across the room-

How could he tell him the truth? That the boy he thinks he loves is the one he hates? The one that mocks him in the hallways, spits words like acid, while the ones he wishes to speak rot in his mouth.

 

He loves him, and he knows he’ll love him until his ribs crack and his chest breaks open. Till the pain finally takes him, till he’s rejected, but can’t bring himself to care.

 

He just wants to be free.

 

Everything, always too much, always closing in, and he can not be what they need him to be. He’s pitiful, he knows, and for the first time he tastes a hint of bloodlust, sees the appeal of pain, the gnawing urge to make something internal, external.

 

Draco hangs over the sink, his hands cold on the ceramic. His breath comes fast, and he just wants to hurt- his eyes are hot, and the tears come for the first time in so long. He can’t breathe and

 

He’s never felt like this. Like there will be no end. Every sound comes too loud and he doesn’t want to _be_.

 

He was hollow and sick, and his arm felt heavy with its new marking. _When was the last time you felt alive? That you made your own choice? This isn’t what living feels like_. He doesn’t remember what happiness feels like. He’s touched the darkness, and it only grew.

 

 _It doesn’t have to be like this,_ he thinks. _There’s one thing you can still control._

 

Draco knows he could do it. He has the means, anyone could find it in this school. He could end this, stop this, he could rip himself away from anyone’s control. He could die here, quiet, and seep into the silence as less than an echo.

 

There are noises in the doorway, and he hears the murmur of a voice.

He feels nauseous. He doesn’t hear the words that are spoken, but panic fills him. Not Harry. _Not Harry_. Please, _please_ , no— But it is. Because it always is. Everything Draco is always comes back to him.

 

Something like rage fills him. The buzzing in his ears drowns everything out, and hands clench into fists at his sides, the tears still blurring his vision as Harry’s eyes meet his in the mirror. There’s an impossible look of hatred on his face, and Draco’s stomach drops. _He’ll never want you. You can’t be what he needs. You never will be. He would be safer if you were gone._

 

So he strikes.

 

What else could he do?

 

The sink shatters with the return blow, Draco's bicep tattered with the pieces of porcelain that now lay scattered across the floor. Draco laughs. _You'd think he would realize just who he's trying to kill when he starts bleeding too._ But Harry wasn't letting up. _And why would he?_ Says a voice. _He hates you. He loves a boy that doesn't exist, a boy that can give him galaxies but not his name._

 

The blood tastes like rust, and he sees his father's arm rear back to strike him, hears the spraying water of the broken sink, and he is being eaten away— the rotting wood of the manor; the maggots on the bird— _if_ _you take away all the things you've been told you are and there's nothing left, are you still living?_ But he is. He's _alive_. Because Harry is trying to kill him, and there's fire in his eyes and blood on his face, but at least hate is _something_. At least Harry feels something for him, this _real_ him.

 

And then Draco hears a spell he's never heard before.

 

" _Sectumsempra!_ "

 

It's like no curse he's been hit with before, no combat spell: he's not just cut, he's cut open.

 

_Why are you cracking open my chest when you already have what lies there? It's yours, take it, take everything._

 

His knees buckle, and he falls to the ground, his back hitting the floor. The pain is more than he has ever felt before. Harry walks toward him, his shoes splashing in the water. _It would be beautiful to die by his hand, maybe the only beautiful thing I would leave behind,_ Draco thinks. _And I would be responsible for the destruction of the savior, just like they wanted, all because he killed someone he thought he loved, someone little more than a whisper and ink._ The pain sears across his chest, his fingertips trembling as they reach the water. He’s breathless, delirious with the rush, and Harry just stares.  

 

 _He would lift a blade to salute me,_ he muses. _His blood dripping as mine flowed, a punishment and a reminder he doesn’t deserve._ He wishes he could tell him to forget all of this. Every word he spoke, every star drawn. Every drop of blood they each spilled. He wishes he could take it all back, but now it’s all exposed, and there are heavy footprints on the ground.

 

His breath stutters with every inhale, and each sob wracks his body. _This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To end, before you become their instrument?_ A voice says. He sees Snape’s face over him, and Harry’s near the door, contorted in something that must be shock. _Not at his hand. Not his._

 

He can feel himself fading, spots of black creeping in on the edges of his vision. He sees Harry turn, and he regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to highlight that self-harm does not always equate to suicidal behavior, and often self-harm is used to avoid behavior that could be considered suicidal. The depictions of mental illness and deleterious coping mechanisms and behaviors I include in this work are based off of my personal experience and little else. 
> 
> Again, please watch for tags that may be triggers for you.


	5. Author's Question (please read!)

Hey guys! 

Sorry for the false alarm, I'm approaching finals and I haven't had much time to write, but I feel bad leaving you guys on a cliffhanger when the story is just about to pick up. So I was wondering- (and I'll decide by popular vote, so please respond!) Would you guys want shorter updates, more frequently? Or should I continue at this pace? Because I always have bits written faster than whole chapters, I'm slow. 

 

Please let me know! 

I'll delete this later. 

All my love, 

-ks

 

 **Okay:**  It looks like there's a more mixed response than I thought, but the majority seem to prefer smaller updates more often, so I decided to hit up a compromise. Until I can get myself together this summer, I'll be posting smaller updates (I'm about to post the next bit before I go to bed, get ready to get Wrecked) and then I'll resume my normal, longer chapters less frequently. 

 

Thank you guys so much for the feedback! I'll let you know if anything changes. 


	6. Malaise 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Underneath the panic in his chest there’s a pull of something strange and strong, as if there was a string pulling him through the tower. He stumbles up the stairs and to the left, and into a small bathroom, jerking open the door and nearly falling through. 
> 
> He finds Harry sitting against the bathroom wall, his shoulders hunched forward, and eyes fixed on the ground, /and the world falls apart./
> 
> /He can't die without knowing I love him./

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating goes up in this chapter not for smut, but because of some heavy description of self-harm. I’m not trying to be disgusting, and it is absolutely not gore, but as someone who has a lot of experience with it, it’s important to me that people understand the reality of it.   
> I strive to write this story without romanticizing self-harm, using my own experience as a template.
> 
> In this chapter I:   
> 1\. Make up a spell   
> 2\. Use lyrics from one of my favorite songs, (All cred to All is Well (Goodbye, Goodbye) by Radical Face)  
> 3\. Realize I said this was a shorter update but it's actually longer than chapter two or three...   
> 4\. Remind you again to take care of yourselves and to please heed trigger warnings.

It isn’t the pain that comes first, rather just a sense of malaise. He slips his legs over the side of the hospital cot and tries to catch his breath. Something feels wrong. Horrifically wrong— like Harry is splitting him apart again. Wrong, like the look in his eyes when he realized who Draco was.

 

The pain comes next, and he doesn't expect it. It's nothing compared so sectumsempra, but he still hisses when the blood seeps through the sleeves of his hospital gown. _Fuck. I should have known._ Draco stands and grabs his wand, slipping on a dressing gown and shoving it into his pocket. He shuffles out the door of the hospital wing and pads barefoot across the stone floor, his breath heavy and chest tight with the newly-healed wounds.

 

The closer he gets to Gryffindor tower, the more panic burns in his chest. His fingers shake on the banister of the staircase, and he nearly trips over the steps as his pace quickens. The blood begins to leak through the material of the dressing gown, dripping down his wrists. _He’s alone. He’s alone and he’s done this, and it’s all my fault._

It’s only when he arrives at the tower that he realizes he has no way in.

 

He stops for a second, stares around the corridor in panic. He just wants to do something, _anything_ , to help Harry. No one else knew. How could they?

 

Draco takes a shuddering breath and takes his wand from his pocket and casts an easy glamour. He may not be able to appear as someone else, but he can at least not appear to be himself. He walks up to the sleeping portrait and lets out a low yelp.

 

“Oh goodness!” the woman yelled.

 

“I need help! Please, open the door! I need someone to heal me!” Draco walked closer, focusing on the fear in her eyes.

 

“I can’t-“

 

“ _Please_ ,” he pleaded, swaying on his feet.

 

“J-Just this once,” she mumbled, swinging the door open hesitantly. “But if anything, _suspicious_ happens, I know who you are.”

 

Draco hurried through the door and stood, shaking, in the common room. _Sure, I’m in the tower, but how am I supposed to know which room he’s in?_

 

Underneath the panic in his chest there’s a pull of something strange and strong, as if there was a string pulling him through the tower. He stumbles up the stairs and to the left, and into a small bathroom, jerking open the door and nearly falling through.

 

He finds Harry sitting against the bathroom wall, his shoulders hunched forward, and eyes fixed on the ground, _and the world falls apart._

 

His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, his forearms streaked with blood, a pair of scissors still held limply between his fingers.

 

Draco can’t count the gashes. The skin is ripped and torn to shreds, all of them overlapping, and blood nearly black. They look so deep- so much deeper than Draco’s own.

 

 _He can’t die without knowing I love him_.

 

He kneels and shakes his shoulder, nails digging into the flesh. “Harry. _Harry_.”

 

He looks up, barely, head bobbing and eyes struggling to focus on his face. “W-Who-“

 

Draco grimaces and drops the glamour with a gesture, and Harry’s eyes grew watery, choking on his breath. “I’m sorry. _I’m sorry_. Am I dead?”

 

There’s a throb in his chest and Draco stands and rips towels off the hooks on the wall before kneeling again beside Harry. He lets out a small sob as Draco lifts his arm and wraps it in one of the towels, tight, and Harry reaches up and grabs his wrist and looking at him blearily, his breathing labored and hands sticky with blood. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t,” he mumbles.

 

"I have to go,” Draco breathes. “I need to get help."

 

Harry shakes his head weakly, his hand tightening ever so slightly on Draco’s wrist. “Please, no.”

 

“I’m not going to let you _die_ , Harry!”

 

Harry’s breath comes quick, making hoarse sounds in his throat as he pulls Draco down closer to him. He could see the tears in his green eyes, the way his lip trembled, and his brows furrowed. “ _I don’t want to be here anymore_.”

 

Draco gasps a breath- his limbs are stiff and his chest hollow, everything comes to a standstill at those words. _I need you here, please. I know it’s selfish, but I need to be able to dream of being in your life, someday, after all of this is over. I won’t let you do something you would always regret._

_All we do is hurt each other, and I’m sorry-_

_but I love you too much to give you this._

Draco pulls his wrist from Harry’s grasp and fingers shaking, takes his hand and squeezes. “I have to get someone, okay?”

 

He pulls away and uses another towel to wrap his other arm, using the last one to wrap around them both. He takes the scissors from where they had been laid on the floor and tucks them into his pocket. Harry is still breathing hard, and his whole body shakes with quiet sobs. Before they stop. Abruptly.

 

Draco’s heart stops.

 

“ _Harry_ ,” he says urgently, “Harry _say_ something.” Draco tilts his head up, finding him quiet, his eyes nearly closed. He reaches up and hits his hand against Harry’s cheek a few times, and his eyes flicker open. “You have to stay awake. Don’t go to sleep. Stay with me.”

 

“H-Hermione,” he whispers. “She can help.”

 

Draco takes a deep breath and lifts his wand from his pocket. “I’m going to cast a charm- it’ll allow you to talk to me when I leave. If you stop talking, I’ll come back.”

 

Harry nodded his head.

 

“ _Colloquor spacium_ ,” Draco whispers. He stands, and takes a last look back at Harry, making his way back to the common room. “Can you hear me?” He asks.

 

“Yes.”

 

It was almost like Harry was speaking just behind his ear. “Can you tell me where she is?”

 

“T-Third door on the left. Other corridor.” He breathes.

 

“Okay, keep talking.”

 

He crosses the common room, careful in the dark. He finds the second corridor before Harry speaks again.

 

Draco heard Harry gasp, and then mutter, “Nothing to say.”

 

“Have to say something.” He stretches arms out to feel his way down the hall, wincing at the stretch under the drying blood. “ _Anything_. Please Harry.”

 

There’s a second of silence, and Draco hears Harry’s shallow breaths still stunted by sobs. He almost turns back, but then he hears something that almost sound like humming. It’s broken, and brittle, but if Draco stops to listen he can hardly make out the whispered words of a song he doesn’t know.

 

“And I, have lost your face,” Harry breathes, cut by a stuttering breath. “It slips between my fingers now.”

 

Draco passes the first and second door, and then steps past a bathroom. He’s shaky, and he can’t imagine what he’s going to say to Granger when he does find her. Harry goes silent again, and Draco takes a deep breath.

 

“Harry?”

 

“And a-all the world is gray, you took the colors with you-“ Harry chokes out a sob, and his voice dissolves into heavy breathing again.

 

“Talk to me,” Draco mumbles, and there’s a pang in my chest.

 

“I don’t want to go,” he says.

 

“You’re not going anywhere,” Draco promises, and he opens the door to the third room. He still can barely see through the darkness, but he can just barely make out the shape of one of the beds by the window.

 

“…Granger?” he whispers. He hopes most of the students are gone for the holiday. “Hermione?” He takes a step into the room and the old floorboards creak under his feet. He suddenly feels a wand digging into his ribs.

 

“ _What are you doing here Malfoy_?” Her voice carries venom, but not enough to scare him back.

 

He doesn’t give her a moment to attack, before he can tell there are tears dripping from his eyes, but he doesn’t have time to feel ashamed. “I-I think Harry tried to kill himself. Please Granger. _Please_.”

 

“Harry wouldn’t-“ She stops, her eyes drawn to his bloodied robe, she circles and faces him, wand still pointed at him. “Is that blood?”

 

She leans back, her face steeling and her eyes hard. Her grip tightens on her wand.

 

Draco’s hand shakes, but he reaches up and rolls up his sleeve to reveal his own bloodied arm, and under it, faintly, the stars he had drawn for Harry seemingly so long ago. “ _Please_. You have to help him.”

 

Her arm drops an inch, and her eyes are glued to the mess of Draco’s arm. “Are you-?”

 

“His are worse than mine. _Please_.”

 

__________

 

“ _Ferula_ ,” Hermione whispers, and more bandages unravel from her wand. They sit together in relative silence, Draco's sleeves pulled up to where Hermione can help him heal the superficial cuts matching Harry's wounds. Hermione's fingers brush over the faded ink of a long-ago sketched Saturn as she wraps his deeper wounds with the bandages. Harry sleeps on bed, arms bandaged and stitched up, blood partially replenished by some spell Draco had never heard before. They had moved him back to his room after Hermione checked that his roommates were gone. Draco was still amazed with Hermione’s spellwork. _What exactly was the DA learning?_

 

“Thank you,” Draco says. Hermione nodded warily in response. He waited a moment before speaking again, anxious to break the silence of the room. “Did you know that he did this?”

 

“No,” she mumbles. “I didn’t.”

 

"I should have told-" Draco pauses. "This is my fault."

 

“It’s not your fault. He makes his own decisions.”

 

“Why aren’t mine as deep as his?” he asks, quietly.

 

Hermione meets his eyes, tightening the last bandage without looking. "Soul-bonds don't transfer life-threatening wounds." 

 

There’s a pang in his chest. _Why couldn’t it be something beneficial? Why couldn’t it split the damage between us? Is this bond that useless to him?_

"You should have gotten Pomfrey."

 

"He asked for you. I wasn’t going to say no, you were closer.”

 

 Draco is quiet. He stares at the boy now laying in the bed, sheets turned down under him, and palms facing up, the bandages already vaguely red under the gauze. "I don't think he wanted her. I don’t think he wanted her to know."

 

"That you're soulmates?"

 

Draco feels his stomach drop at the word. "About the cutting," he mumbles. “Not that we’re… whatever we are.”

 

"Soulmates?" says Hermione.

 

Draco shook his head. "I almost killed him," Draco breathes. “He deserves someone else.”

 

"He almost killed you," she replies. "Besides, this wasn't your fault. Harry did this to himself. You’re bonded together, for better or for worse.”

 

"Did it, because of me."

 

"Because he _almost killed you,_ ” Hermione sighs, and shakes her head. “I wish he would have told us. I saw the drawings, once or twice, but he always hid his arms.”

 

“You didn’t know?” Draco asks.

 

“He never told us he had a soulmate, let alone that it was you.”

 

He takes a breath, and he looks back at Harry, still sleeping peacefully. _How can I tell her that he didn’t know? That I kept this from him for years?_ “Oh,” he says.

 

The room slips back into silence again, and Hermione follows his gaze, looking over at Harry. “I don’t think he’s going to want to see me when he wakes up.”

 

“You saved his life.”

 

“But a piece of himself was revealed that he didn’t want to be. He’ll want to be with someone who already knew,” She glances at him, meaningfully. “Will you stay with him?”

 

His chest is heavy, and his heartbeat quickens. “I will.”

 

“I trust you not to hurt him. You know I’m just down the hall, too, if something goes wrong.”

 

Draco nods and watches Hermione walk over to Harry and squeeze his hand before leaving the room, giving Draco one last, almost pitiful, look.

 

 

 

Harry grips his hand in his sleep, waking only to look around in panic before passing out again. Draco stares at his twitching fingers, his messy curls, his eyes finally falling to the blood-soaked bandages on his wrist, and it hurts.

 

Harry sleeps through breakfast and well into the time for lunch, and Draco sways in his chair, dark circles like bruises under each eye, still unwilling to leave him. At least he could do this for him. He had to.

 

_If only I would have told him. If only I was brave._

 

Eventually, Harry’s eyes open, and he flinches back from Draco’s hand, painfully, and stares at him from below. He bends his arms, hissing at the strain, and looks away from Draco, pulling up the bedsheets over his arms. His fingers tangle in the sheets, and Draco shifts in the chair, eyes fixed on the ground.

 

“I didn’t mean to,” Harry mumbles, and Draco stands. He can feel Harry’s eyes move to the dark matted tissue on his collarbone, still fresh from Snape’s spell. “I didn’t.”

 

Draco’s chest is tight, and he feels like he’s choking on his empathy, eyes heavy and nails digging into his palms. He could have _died_ , and he offers apologies to Draco. After being stitched back together by trembling hands, waking under the vigil of his worst enemy, he wakes, and apologizes. He turns, legs shaking, and hears the sheets rustle behind him.

 

“Please.”

 

Draco stops, and he closes his eyes, trying to resist the urge to turn back. He hurts. Everything hurts and he doesn’t want it to. No more. “Don’t do this again,” his voice breaks, hoarse in the quiet of the stale, metallic air. “There are people who need you here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay... I know this chapter is heavy as hell, but it just had to be done. Please don't murder me. 
> 
> I'll try to update again soon, as I said, most likely with shorter parts. 
> 
> Also, I'm looking for a really interested and reliable Beta, (maybe more than one?) So please let me know if you're interested.


	7. Malaise 2 (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It hurts a little, when he thinks of him. Thinking of his name, thinking of the things he always attached to it. Hatred. Narcissism. Weakness.But enemies don’t stay with you through sleep. Villains don’t save the life they’re trying to destroy.  
> And Harry has no fucking idea what that means.
> 
>  
> 
> We're rolling along into actual dialogue between the boys! Who's excited?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is half of the chapter I was planning to post, because I ended up doing a complete rewrite after advice from a valuable beta, and I've only had time to rewrite half, but I didn't want you guys to have to wait any longer.  
> Thanks for waiting so long, I hope this answers some questions and gets us rolling into the next section smoothly! 
> 
> I love all of you so much! 
> 
> Your support means everything to me, and keeps this fic alive!   
> \- ks

Harry arrives in the medical wing at half past six, two nights before the end of the winter holiday, and stands outside of the curtains surrounding Draco’s cot. The whole wing smells of herbal remedies with a touch Skele-Gro, making him vaguely nauseous, and he can hear the drag of the ceramic plates from dinner on the standard plastic tray inside. His arms still throbbed under his sleeves. He had hid from Hermione all day, and he had barely convinced himself to walk down just to see _him_.

 

It hurts a little, when he thinks of him. Thinking of his name, thinking of the things he always attached to it. Hatred. Narcissism. Weakness.

 

But enemies don’t stay with you through sleep. Villains don’t save the life they’re trying to destroy.

 

And Harry has _no fucking idea what that means_.

_You aren’t him. You don’t get to be tender, or kind. You don’t draw the stars on your arms just to keep me grounded. You can’t be my safety, you can’t hold my love, I was stupid enough to have faith, and now all I have is this._

_And questions._

 

 

“We have to talk about this.”

 

Draco’s eyes linger on the thick bandages beneath Harry’s white sleeves before darting away. “We don’t.”

 

“We _do_.”

 

Draco is silent, his arms folded in front of him. “Nothing changes. You weren’t supposed to know.”

 

There’s a dry heat burning at the back of his throat, and he swallows. _Somehow you get to make the decision for both of us. Even when I should hold half the puzzle, when I should be able to feel in control, everything is decided for me._ His nails rake at his palms as Draco refuses to meet his eyes, and his arms tense at his sides. “But I _wanted_ to!” Harry growls. “All this time. All these years you’ve spent hiding and then _torturing_ me out in the open, and then behind closed doors you what? _Comfort the enemy_?” Harry catches his breath, his hands curling into fists. “Why.”

 

Draco is silent, his eyes burning. _Cowardly. Miserable. You don’t deserve him. You don’t._

Harry laughs bitterly and shakes his head. “I thought I could have one good thing. I should have known better. This is the cruelest thing you’ve ever done.”

 

He turns, and Draco’s hands shake, his chest aching. “Wait.”

 

“For what? I’ve _been_ waiting,” Harry breathes.

 

There’s a weight sitting heavy on Draco’s chest, digging between his ribs to press hard into his lungs. _This is what I’ve been waiting for. Not a happy ending, for the rejection from the only one I wanted._ He opens his mouth, then closes it. Then opens it again. “How was I supposed to tell you?” he says.

 

Harry’s eyes widen, and his brows crease. His eyes fall away from Draco to stare at the faded diamond pattern on the curtain. For the first time in his life he sees Draco look vulnerable. “I- I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

 

They fall into silence for a moment, both of them staunchly refusing to look at the other, until someone’s footsteps echo down the room and pass Draco’s bed. Harry coughs lightly, and tucks his hands into his pockets. “I came here to thank you, not to fight,” Harry says quietly. “You saved my life.”

 

“I know Gryffindors aren’t the smartest bunch, but I thought you knew I didn’t want you dead.”

 

Harry looks up at him, his eyes boring into Draco’s. “You didn’t have to stay,” he mumbles. “I didn’t think you would.” Nerves flutter in his stomach, and he can feel his ears turning red.

 

“I didn’t want a repeat performance,” he says, _but the reality is_ _I didn’t want you waking up alone._

Harry presses his lips together and stares at him meaningfully. “There won’t be one.”

 

They lapse into silence again, and Harry shuffles toward the bed slowly. Draco can feel his eyes on the angry raised flesh over his collarbone, and he feels uncharacteristically exposed. “Does it hurt?” Harry asks.

 

Draco looks at him skeptically and his eyes narrow. “Being gutted doesn’t exactly tickle, Potter,” he mumbles. “But no, since Pomfrey healed me it mostly just itches.”

 

“And the scarring?”

 

Draco drops his eyes dug his nails into his thigh under the sheets. “Dark magic leaves scars.” Not exactly a lie, but not the truth either. It could still be healed- If he wanted it to be.

 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says hoarsely. “I didn’t mean to do this.”

 

“ _You cast the spell,_ Potter,” Draco replies, feeling the first stirs of anger in his stomach. 

 

“I didn’t know what it did.”

 

“You cast a spell you didn’t know the _effect_ of?”

 

Harry is silent, and he stares at his hands, fiddling with his fingers. “I found it in a potions’ book. I didn’t think, I was just so _angry_.”

 

“That was fucking stupid.”

 

He watches Harry fidget under his gaze, but his own hands loosen their grasp on his thighs and he sighs. _It would be easier if he had just killed me. If this wasn’t something we had to face together._ It should be a relief, but instead it terrifies him. _If there’s even the slightest chance I could have this, I’m not sure I could say no._

 

“If I had known…” Harry trails off, and glances at the ground. He looks guilty, but there’s a hint of something dry and hot burning into Draco's chest.

 

“I’m still the same person,” he says, carefully. “Just because you’re seeing me differently doesn’t mean I’m actually any different.”

 

“I just— I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how you can be both and none and…” Harry trails off again and takes a breath. “I just don’t know what we do now.”

 

Draco feels his eyes beginning to sting, and he bites the inside of his cheek. _Nothing. Nothing, because I’m in love with you and that makes this dangerous- I want you but I don’t deserve you and I will never be the person you need me to be._ “There isn’t a ‘we’, Potter. There can’t be.”

 

Harry’s palms clench and unclench at his sides, and his shoulders tense. He’s quiet for a moment, and then softly, under his breath he whispers, “You called me Harry, that night.”

Draco’s heart aches, the words feel like they’re opening his wounds again. _That night I couldn’t be anyone but myself. You were only the you from my head, and you were fading, fading, fading, and I couldn’t lose you and Harry I wish you could understand-_

“I don’t want this to mean nothing,” Harry mumbles. “I want to know you.”

 

_You don’t want to know me, and you can’t. We don’t get this. Because of him. Because of me._ “Pomfrey will be making her next set of rounds soon,” he says.

 

Harry stares at him, his face expressionless. “Fine.”

 

Draco watches as he ducks between the curtains and listens to his heavy steps echo across the tile of the floor. His hands smooth repetitively across the sheets, and his eyes are blurry. The cheap cloth is rough on his skin, and his head is just. So. Loud. And it’s better this way, he’s sure. To lose him before he really knows what having him would be like.

 

To break this before Harry can do the breaking.

 

—————

 

 

Deny deny deny.

 

It’s all he does now.

 

Every moment of his life is another fucking reminder that he is the chosen one, meant to change this world tainted by darkest forces, and the boy he loves is one of them. A slave to one of them. He is overcome and empty and he was stupid enough to think that he could have this one thing, untouched by evil, safe, and free of everything he’s grown to hate so much.

 

And that boy. The boy he can’t have, rotted and filled with intentions not his own, who hid this from him for years, years after he knew who Harry was-

 

That boy doesn’t want him. He never has. He never will.

He loves him. He’s known it for so long- but this should change things. And yet.

 

And yet.

 

Who can map the anatomy of the human heart? He can take pity from anyone but him. He’s comforted through the night by the person he tried to kill. Comforted, by the person who saved his life, who took every wound Harry made with his own hands, harm he just couldn’t help, and god, how could he do that to him? How could he have hurt him like that, even after knowing exactly what happened on the other side of it?

 

Their pasts will never just be. There has been too much blood spilled between them, too little distance between comfort and harm.

 

They will always be covered in each other’s scars.

 

The will always have scars caused by each other.

 

—————

 

 

He’s made his decision. They will never be whole. It’s selfish, he knows, but he can’t help it.Harry may be a part of him, the echo of lost things, of what was and what could be, but if he let this change him, let this take every part of who he was, who would he be? He couldn’t give up everything, after the lives lost and the scars he bore. Every secret, every wound would not come to this. It couldn’t.

 

But this. The future he thought they could have had. Them, together, an echo of domesticity that poisons his dreams, anything they could be always plagued by what they were.

 

Enemies.

 

Maybe he couldn’t deny it. Maybe his skin would always betray him. But it didn’t change that he had hurt Harry _first_ , and there was no way to reverse it. There was no other way, no other choice. Not that he would have chosen Draco if he had one.

 

All of this

 

would come to an end.

 

 

 

 


End file.
